


8 Ways to Say I Love You

by red0aktree, Square_Orange



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Established Relationship, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Romance, john is a loser who can't say i love you, sherlock is also a loser but less so
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-04
Updated: 2014-03-04
Packaged: 2018-01-14 13:47:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1268662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/red0aktree/pseuds/red0aktree, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Square_Orange/pseuds/Square_Orange
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John struggles to tell Sherlock what he already knows. Since when has saying "I love you" been so hard?</p><p>Based off the poem "8 Ways to Say I Love You" by R. McKinley.</p>
            </blockquote>





	8 Ways to Say I Love You

>   _1\. Spit it into her voicemail, a little slurred and sounding like the shot whiskey you downed for courage. Feel as ashamed as you do walking into work in last night’s clothes. Wake up cringing for days, waiting for her to mention it._

 

John’s feet were heavy as they scraped across the pavement of an empty London street. He giggled to himself, feeling a bit childish and very, very gidy. His phone felt heavier in his hand than usual. It was as though it held more than circuits and wires and tiny microphones. In that moment, Sherlock’s phone number felt like more than just a saved contact. Stored data. Memory. _  
_

" _You’ve reached Sherlock Holmes. Don’t bother leaving a message. If you are feeling particularly incessant, call John. His number is on the website._ ”

 

John had called Sherlock enough times to have the message completely memorized, down to the annoyed little huff of breath after “incessant” and the way Sherlock spit John’s name in faux annoyance.

 

“Sherlock. Listen,” John slurred, feeling his courage well up inside him for a moment. “I’m on my way home from the pub, and I know this is all a bit ridiculous, because, well,” John laughed, “I’m going to, to see you in a minute anyway. But I just thought I ought to tell you…” John paused, laughing again, bitterly this time. “I think I might, well I know I might -- do! -- I know I do…”

 

Then there was silence. John didn’t have anything else to say. Or rather, he had a hundred things to say, but not a single ounce of courage left.

 

“I think you’re really great.” John spit foolishly, ending the call immediately after. He jammed his phone back into his pocket, and continued along the empty street. Sherlock would know what he had meant to say. Sherlock would be able to hear it in the fluctuation of his words, the hesitation between syllables in the third, eighth and tenth words of each sentence or something equally ridiculous. Because that was what Sherlock did. As John stumbled home drunkenly, he thought to himself that he only had one thing going for him at the moment.

 

John had called Sherlock enough times to know Sherlock never checked his voicemails.

 

* * *

 

 

>   _2\. Sigh it into her mouth, wedged in between teeth and tongues. Don’t even let your lips move when you say it, ever so lightly, into the air. Maybe it was just an exhalation of ecstasy._

 

Sherlock hadn’t mentioned the voicemail, to John’s relief. John had woken the following morning feeling foolish, but also a bit lucky. Lucky Sherlock hadn’t answered the phone and lucky he’d changed his mind last minute. It wasn’t that he didn’t mean it. John loved Sherlock. He’d admitted it a great many times, each time it was passionate and subtle and loving, and still nothing like a love confession should be. Sherlock deserved something beautiful and awe inspiring.

 

Many times over he’d pushed the words into Sherlock’s mouth around his breathy whimpers; Sherlock always made the most beautiful noises when they fucked. John wedged the revelation between teeth and tongues and mixed it in saliva and thrust it over full lips. John licked into Sherlock’s open mouth and lavished a brilliant confession without speaking a word. It was mysterious and powerful and so very beautiful to be able to tell your lover a hundred different things without speech.

 

Sherlock and John didn’t struggle to communicate physically like they did with words. Sometimes John’s sentences became jumbled when he spoke, and Sherlock’s explanations traveled far beyond John’s realm of understanding. But with touch everything made sense. Sherlock felt John’s devotion at every point of contact and heard “I love you” in every greedy moan.

 

* * *

 

 

>   _3\. Buy her flowers. Buy her chocolate. Buy her a teddy bear, because that’s what every romantic comedy has taught you. Take her out to a nice restaurant where neither of you feel comfortable and spend the whole night clearing your throat and tugging at your tie. Feel like your actions are more suited to a proposal than the simple confession of something you’ve always known._

 

The day after a case involving cocaine-filled teddy bears, Sherlock discovered a black Steiff bear sitting proudly on his pillow. Beside the red tab on his ear hung a piece of card on a string, whereupon John’s distinctive writing declared:

 

 _Sherlock,  
_ _Better than any drug_

 

John had debated whether or not he should write what he really meant on that slip of paper, but the final words came out easier than any real confession ever could.

 

-

 

Buy chocolate. -SH

 

Please. -SH

 

Shopping bags already filled with the bare necessities were topped off with three large boxes of Lily O’Brien’s, all of which went toppling to the ground when John put down his burden to root out his key. The resulting profanities drew Sherlock’s attention, and he came plodding down the stairs to the sorry sight of his lover trying to balance a leaking carton of milk, a plastic tray of salmon, and a bundle of loo rolls. Instead of lightening the load, he bent down to inspect John’s choice of chocolate.

 

“Lily O’Brien’s are a little pricey for a simple experiment, John.”

 

“Experi- For God’s sake-” The doctor thundered up the stairs, leaving Sherlock to pick up the remaining groceries while the detective puzzled out why John was annoyed at him.

 

“Mrs Hudson! Put away the shopping if you’d be so kind, and you would, don’t argue.”

 

-

 

“Bugger!” A clattering of delicate instruments against tiles drew John from his newspaper. Sherlock was hunched over the table with his left index finger held delicately in front of him.

 

“Did you burn yourself? Put it under the tap. Ten minutes, you know how it goes.”

 

Sherlock’s expression as cold water flowed over his hand would have been more fitting had he been caught in a rainstorm -- nose scrunched and lips in a thin line. John thanked the stars that he only had to endure the pain of silent laughter for a little while.

 

“Kiss it better.” The damp, freezing digit was thrust under his nose without warning. A choked, disbelieving laugh escaped John’s mouth before he could catch it.

 

“Are you five?” Hesitantly, Sherlock withdrew his finger and tucked it into the pocket of his dressing gown. It was the embarrassed flush of his cheeks and fluttering of his lashes that made the doctor reach out and take hold of his wrist.

 

“I’ll put some aloe vera on it. I bought it specifically for this purpose, you know. Come with me, the pot’s by the bedroom window.”

 

Sherlock looked on expressionlessly as John meticulously picked and sliced one of the green leaves, and smeared the innards onto his burn. He placed a soft, lingering kiss on the back of his hand and smiled up at him.

 

“Get better soon, Mr Holmes.” 

 

* * *

 

 

>   _4\. Whisper it into her hair in the middle of the night, after you’ve counted the space between her breaths and are certain she’s asleep. Shut your eyes quickly when she shifts toward you in askance. Maybe you were just sleep whispering._

 

Sherlock was a masterpiece -- beautiful, warm and loving. He wrapped himself around John tightly as he slept, hands splayed across the planes of John’s chest and back, fingertips pressing into his skin as though he couldn’t get close enough. John counted the seconds between each snuffling breath he took, his bony chest rising against John’s as he lay sprawled across John’s body.

 

It was dark in their shared bedroom and John could hear the late night wind outside of their window, opened a sliver. John could feel the secrecy in the cool air of the room and his heart beat quickened with anticipation. He was going to say it, outloud and proudly. Nevermind the fact Sherlock wouldn’t hear it. John wanted to taste the harsh burn of the words on his tongue.

 

“I love you.” He told the void.

 

Sherlock shifted in his sleep, letting out a quiet little grumble and pulling John closer. John snapped his eyes shut and prayed to anyone that would listen, hoping Sherlock stayed asleep.

 

He did.

 

* * *

 

 

>   _5\. Blurt it out in the middle of an impromptu dance party in the kitchen, as clumsy as your two left feet. When time seems to freeze, hastily tack on “in that shirt” or “when you make your award-winning meatballs” or, if you are feeling particularly brave, “when we do this.” Resume dancing and pretend you don’t feel her eyes on you the rest of the night._

“I don’t suppose you’re one for dancing,” John called into the living room from the kitchen where he swayed along to the soft sounds of the radio, “but it _is_ awfully romantic, you know?”

 

“Why exactly would I care about being romantic?” Sherlock called back, his swift fingers typing out yet another email. He glanced to John from his seat at the desk for a brief second and found himself smiling in spite of himself. “I’ve already seduced you. Apparently.”

 

“You? Seducing _me_?” John laughed, “I don’t think that’s how it went.” Sherlock chuckled deeply, he didn’t feel much like answering email anymore.

 

“All I’m saying is that sometimes it’s nice to dance with your boyfriend. Especially when he’s cooking you dinner.” John’s playful wink had Sherlock on his feet and slinking toward the kitchen before he could stop himself.

 

“If one’s boyfriend is cooking dinner, perhaps he shouldn’t be dancing.” Sherlock reached a long fingered hand out and caught John’s. “Wouldn’t want to burn anything.” Sherlock purred, spinning John around and pulling him closer to his chest.  

 

The two moved, in perfect synchronization as always. John’s movements were awkward and heartfelt while Sherlock was a picturesque example of elegance, all long limbs and smooth transitions. It wasn’t long before Sherlock had pushed John backward just far enough so he was pinned against the kitchen table.

 

Sherlock dropped his hands to John’s hips and leaned down gracefully, capturing John’s lips for a slow kiss before moving to nuzzle his nose against the hollow of John’s jaw, pressing open mouth kisses against the soft skin there. John kept one hand against the small of Sherlock’s back, he ran the other through Sherlock’s curls.

 

“You were wrong, you know,” Sherlock dropped his voice an octave, letting the words vibrate against John’s throat the way he liked, “I am one for dancing.” John let out a pleased moan and Sherlock pressed one last kiss to his lips before pulling away. The song had ended.

 

“I love you.” John blurted as Sherlock released him. Sherlock quirked an eyebrow in askance, his flushed lips parting a bit in surprise. John painfully backtracked in the silence. “When you humor me,” John added quickly. “I love you -- it -- when you humor me.”

 

“Oh,” Sherlock nodded slowly, “Of course.” He smiled gently at John before stepping out of the kitchen and disappearing into the flat. John didn’t see him again that night. In the morning they acted as though nothing had happened.

 

* * *

 

 

>   _6\. Write her a letter in which the amount of circumnavigating and angst could rival Mr. Darcy’s. Debate where to leave it all day – on her pillow? In her coat pocket? Throw it away in frustration, conveniently leaving it face up in the trashcan, her name scrawled on the front in your sloppy handwriting. Let her wonder if you meant it._

There was no pile of scrunched paper littered around his feet. John knew from the moment he sat down what the contents of this letter would be, so there were no indecisive scribbles and half-written, unco-ordinated thoughts pressed too hard into lined copy-book pages. Yet still the top of his black biro (always black, for Sherlock was engaged in a petty feud with blue ink for some unknowable reason) was chewed to white shards, and he had only written four lines.

 

Although, thinking about it, maybe those four lines were enough.

 

Four lines of neatly written confessions were tucked into an inconspicuous envelope and marked “Sherlock”. John placed it first on the mantlepiece by the skull. Then between the cushions of the leather chair. It ended up sitting morosely atop a pile of last week’s newspapers in the bin. 

 

* * *

 

 

>   _7\. Wait until something terrible has happened and you can’t not tell her anymore. Wait until she almost gets hit by a car crossing Wabash against the light and after you are done cursing at the shit-for-brains cab drivers in this city, realize you are actually just terrified of living without her. Tell her with your hands shaking._

The screech of rubber on the pavement still echoed in John’s head as he tried to reach where Sherlock -- not fast enough, get there faster -- stood across the street, looking a bit dazed. He had dashed away too quickly, didn’t look close enough. Two inches. Two inches was all it would have taken for Sherlock’s body to be splayed across the street, his precious blood painting the pavement in ironic beauty. “ _And not for the first time either,_ ” John thought.  

 

“Sherlock!” John called, panic rising in his voice. Sherlock’s eyes were glued to the cab, having skid to a stop hazardously after swerving from Sherlock’s prone form. At John’s voice he turned to watch him approach.

 

“You, you can’t do that, Sherlock,” John stuttered, hands shaking as he pressed his palms against Sherlock’s cheeks, neck, arms. Anywhere. Everywhere. He needed to feel Sherlock, know he was alive. “Just. Don’t.”

 

Sherlock was calm, his eyes soft and gentle. He covered John’s hands in his own where they were pressed against his chest. “I’m okay.” He repeated. John shook his head frantically and swallowed once, then twice. Sherlock leaned in hesitantly, pressing a kiss to the corner of John’s trembling lips.

 

John moved forward, dropping his head to Sherlock’s chest. Sherlock wrapped his arms around John slowly, holding him close to his body in comfort. “It would take more than that to get rid of me, John.” Sherlock joked, though he too sounded shaken.

 

“No it wouldn’t, Sherlock.” John whispered into Sherlock’s stupidly posh shirt. “You’re only human.”

 

“That’s debatable.” Sherlock chuckled, running his hands up and down John’s back reassuringly. John pulled away then, standing about arms length away from Sherlock. Sherlock dropped his hands to his sides and tipped his head a bit in curiosity.

 

“Sherlock,” John began, determination written in every line of his face. Sherlock felt uncharacteristically lost as to what John was doing. John’s hands moved wildly as he began to explain. “Listen to me. I need to tell you this, right now, because, well, what if I don’t get another chance? With you always running off and getting into trouble, I probably should have told you earlier but I--”

 

“Stop.” Sherlock understood now what John was going to say. He knew, of course he knew. He’d always known John loved him, it was hardly difficult to see. But for some reason -- something to do with sentiment or something equally confusing he assumed -- Sherlock wasn’t ready to hear it. Not now, not here, standing on the pavement surrounded by speeding cars and bright London lights, Sherlock wasn’t ready for John to tell him. “Don’t say it.” Sherlock pleaded.

 

John was silent, his mouth still hanging open a bit. His expression was a mix between hurt and anger and Sherlock hated it. He hated that he had caused it. After a moment he nodded.

 

“Okay.” John continued to nod slowly, “Okay. I won’t say it.”

 

* * *

 

 

>   _8\. Say it deliberately, your tongue a springboard for every syllable. Over coffee, brushing your teeth side-by-side, as you turn off the light to go to sleep – it doesn’t matter where. Do not adorn it with extra words like “I think” or “I might.” Do not sigh heavily as if admitting it were a burden instead of the most joyous thing you’ve ever done. Look her in the eyes and pray, heart thumping wildly, that she will turn to you and say, “I love you too.”_

 

Sherlock reached the top of the wall easily, disappearing out of John’s sight. John frowned upward, calculating the distance. There was no way he could make it up there, he was much too short. John began to panic at the idea of Sherlock jumping across rooftops without him.

 

“John,” Sherlock’s voice sounded from above him. John whipped his face upward to stare at his flatmate. “I can’t -- I have to catch him.” Sherlock was rushed and a bit fearful, looking to John pleadingly. John only hesitated a moment.

 

“I know. Go. I’ll find Lestrade.” Sherlock nodded and began to pull away, ready to dash across rooftop and leap across menacing gaps and _oh god he’s going to get himself killed._

“Wait, Sherlock! I love you.” There was no stuttering, no flittering about so Sherlock had time to plead him not to say it. Sherlock’s mouth quipped upward a bit in a smile.

 

“I know. I love you, too.” He replied carelessly before darting away, feet pounding against the cement. John allowed himself a moment of happiness, before running to find the Detective Inspector.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> So, thanks so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed! None of this would have been possible without my lovely beta and co-author, Ailbhe. Everyone should go check her out and read her stories and love her because she is seriously the best.
> 
> If you feel so inclined, you can follow us on tumblr. 
> 
> Red-0ak-tree.tumblr.com and an-east-wind-is-coming.tumblr.com


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